Premature Poems
Born before
their time,
severed,
pell-mell;
they were
diagnosed with
incomplete
rhyme.
When I saw
three Ganpatis
dancing on
one leg,
I turned believer,
not in God,
but in the phrase
teen tigda,
kaam bigda!
Poignancy
evaded me
when I
hunted for it.
In my
waking dream,
I let colourless
green ideas
sleep furiously.
On a blog,
it’s rudimentary
to give a
running
commentary
of your life.
Finishing the
unfinished
is an oxymoron.
There is always
something
more to be done.
It wasn’t even
my wedding,
yet, I was
turned into
a clothes horse.
Out of order.
Down for Maintenance.
Out for lunch.
Pain is good for art.
their time,
severed,
pell-mell;
they were
diagnosed with
incomplete
rhyme.
When I saw
three Ganpatis
dancing on
one leg,
I turned believer,
not in God,
but in the phrase
teen tigda,
kaam bigda!
Poignancy
evaded me
when I
hunted for it.
In my
waking dream,
I let colourless
green ideas
sleep furiously.
On a blog,
it’s rudimentary
to give a
running
commentary
of your life.
Finishing the
unfinished
is an oxymoron.
There is always
something
more to be done.
It wasn’t even
my wedding,
yet, I was
turned into
a clothes horse.
Out of order.
Down for Maintenance.
Out for lunch.
Pain is good for art.
posted by ironyofdparadox at 12:38 pm
4 Comments:
Yup, our dear friend Richie would agree :-)
I liked your oxymoron ! Why don't you continue to try your hand at poetry ??
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
@ alter: Yup, Richie's our man!
@ admirer...
When did I stop?
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